


Feeding the Inner Man

by Dawnwind



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:13:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a rough obbo, the simple things are more precious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeding the Inner Man

Feeding the Inner Man  
By   
Dawnwind

Bodie sprawled on the sofa, letting the cricket announcer’s voice on the telly lull him into a trance-like state. He was bloody tired; every muscle and joint in his body ached. He focused on the ball arcing away from the bowler, the players in their white jumpers and flannels just streaks of white against a verdant pitch. The ordered calm of the match was a balm on his battered soul.

His stomach growled, reminding the rest of his weary body that it required sustenance. Serendipitously, a tantalising scent wafted past his nose, proving that there were some comestibles on the cooker right at that very moment.

Bodie moved just his head to peer into the kitchen. “I’m past peckish and about to eat a horse. Will it be ready soon?”

The glare Doyle sent his way could have stopped a marauding herd of wildebeests. “If you get some plates, I’ll finish doing all the cooking, shall I?”

Bodie was an experienced agent and had served in the SAS; he wasn’t cowed. “No need to set the table, serve it here in front of the telly.”

“I’ll just dump the fry up on your lap then, yeah?” 

_He hadn’t thought this all the way through._ Plates would be required after all, if just to protect his skin from hot food. 

Bodie lumbered to his feet, waiting a few moments for vertigo to pass, during which the batter on the winning team scored a run. Bodie used the time to calculate when was the last time he’d had something even remotely edible. Ten hours? No, closer to fifteen, and that had been a remarkably stale swiss roll. Until last night, he hadn’t realised swiss rolls could go stale. He’d been wrong, and had eaten it anyway. After a fortnight on a stake-out that had included not one but two chases after fleeing suspects, he’d forgotten what it was like to have a home cooked meal.

Take-away Chinese that had gone stone cold before being eaten did not count, even if it had been cooked in some distant past.

He managed to pluck two plates out of the cupboard at exactly the same time Doyle turned the gas off under two pans. 

“Get something to drink, you great sloth,” Doyle said, shooing Bodie away before he could poke a finger into whatever had been prepared.

Doyle looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and his usually curly puff of hair was matted and flat. He’d washed his hands before chopping vegetables but that didn’t hide the cuts and bruises decorating his face and arms. His own arms were similarly adorned, but seeing Doyle’s injuries twisted Bodie’s heart. He didn’t even want to think about how long it had been since either of them had taken a real shower, or changed into clothes they hadn’t slept in. He’d become inured to the smell, in all honesty.

Popping open two cans of lager, Bodie frowned at what Doyle was dishing out. Not a sausage nor rasher of bacon to be seen. On the bright side, the food would be hot, fill his belly and undoubtedly go down a treat with lager. Nearly all food groups were enhanced by German beer. Well, maybe not a swiss roll, but those delectable chocolate cakes were in a class by themselves.

Bodie sat down on the sofa, placing the cans, as well as two forks, on the coffee table. They were men, they didn’t need serviettes. Handing over a plate heaped with food, Doyle dropped down beside him. 

“Mmmm.” Bodie couldn’t help a groan of delight as he shovelled in fried tomato and sweet, savoury sautéed mushrooms with onions. Grateful, his stomach demanded much more of this incredible invention: hot, fresh food. 

Doyle sighed with absolute contentment after a mouthful of dinner and continued eating with single-minded purpose

Forking up some of the mash, Bodie kept his eyes on the telly as the opposing team’s batsman stepped up to the plate. He bit, chewed, tasted and froze, debating frantically whether to spit out the offending mouthful or swallow with dread. He chose the latter, nearly choking on the lump as it descended his gullet. “What the bloody hell is that?”

“Mash,” Doyle answered serenely. 

Sitting to the left of him, Bodie had a clear view of the purple red bruise on the side of Doyle’s face. Remembered seeing one of mobster Bertram Langham’s thugs slam Doyle to the ground and stomp on his head. Bodie had taken the bloke out with a broken cricket bat he’d found in the hovel they’d used during the stake-out. Best hit he’d made in his entire career. The idiot had sung like a sparrow afterward, providing invaluable information about Langham that led to his arrest. Which was solely the reason Bodie and Doyle were currently in Doyle’s flat instead of camped out in the hovel.

Clearing his throat to get out the last of the nasty flavour, Bodie pretended the bruise on his partner’s face didn’t make him want to throttle the thug all over again. He ignored a brilliant play by the winning team on the telly, wrinkling his nose at the food. “This is not mash.”

“At the risk of a disagreement on semantics; it is,” Doyle replied loftily, eating his with a smug grin. 

“Potato, it is not.”

“Bravo, got it in one.” Doyle winked. “It’s turnip.”

Bodie pressed his lips together firmly. _Turnip?_ He shuddered and pushed the turnip to the side of his plate, eating up the remainder of the tomato and mushrooms with alacrity. If that was all he was going to get, he’d have to make do. “Why would you serve this to me?”

“It’s all that I had left in the pantry, and--” Doyle jabbed an elbow in Bodie’s ribs. 

“Ow!” Bodie rubbed his side, surprised that he was slightly more padded than he once had been. Time for some intensive workouts in the CI5 gym and a run through the cemetery with Doyle.

“Two weeks of takeaway, Wimpy burgers, and fish and chips,” Doyle went on, shaking his head. “All that fat, cholesterol, plus huge amounts of salt. Wreaks havoc on the heart and arteries. We’ve both probably gained a stone.”

“Not you, mate.” Bodie admired his partner’s lean frame. Doyle’s grubby jeans were plastered onto his curved arse and slender thighs. Even bruised and scraped, he could put a buzz in Bodie’s groin. “Or, in your case, you could use the extra pounds.” 

Doyle didn’t smile but there was a warmth in his eyes that chased away some of the fatigue. “A healthy, vegetarian diet will put us right.”

“My gran used to grow turnips.” Bodie eyed the mushrooms left on Doyle’s plate wistfully. “She was very much of the eat what’s on your plate and don’t complain, laddie. But, when I did, she’d reward me with chocolate biscuits.”

“I take it you’re past that sort of coercion now, are you?” Doyle raised a forkful of mashed turnip as if he was about to bite some and then turned his hand so that the tines touched Bodie’s bottom lip. “Would you eat this for…a kiss?”

“A kiss?” Bodie asked dazedly. Was this a poor attempt at misdirection? He and Doyle hadn’t been intimate in weeks, not with Jax, Anson and Murphy in and out of the stake-out hovel at all hours. It was a seductive offer, but he was stronger than that. “Not a very effective bribe. You can do better.” He pushed the fork back to Doyle with a forefinger, baring his teeth. 

Doyle swallowed the mash in one go and leaned forward. “Never did properly thank you for giving that bloke a good knock on my behalf.” His mouth parted, a tiny morsel of turnip clinging to the moist lower lip.

Bodie threw caution to the wind and kissed Doyle, turnip or no. It was like coming home. He knew everything about these lips, welcomed the press of Doyle’s chest against his and could match every one of Doyle’s inhales with an exhale of his own.

“No need.” Bodie whispered against his love’s mouth, reaching out with his tongue to encounter Doyle’s. “I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Still latched onto Doyle, he filched a mushroom off his partner’s plate. When the kiss ended, Bodie popped the mushroom into his mouth. Delicious, with the lingering taste of Doyle on his lips. “But there is absolutely no way you are getting me to eat turnip.”

“Turn up your nose all you want.” Doyle shrugged, switching plates so that he had Bodie’s portion of turnip and Bodie had his leavings of caramelized onions. “But it’s nutritious, delicious and…” He ate all but one small scoop of mash. “I’ve heard that turnip can be a potent aphrodisiac. Alas, we’ll never know…”

“You fiend,” Bodie growled, stuffing the very last serving into his mouth and chasing it with a large gulp of beer. Lager did make everything taste better. 

Triumph twinkled in Doyle’s eyes. “All that food’s made it impossible to keep my flies up.” He pulled down the zipper lazily, spreading his thighs so that the left one bumped up against Bodie’s.

“And here I’ve been wasting my time with oysters and champers all these years,” Bodie replied wolfishly. “Should have cultivated a taste for turnips.” He palmed Doyle’s nuts, feeling his cock swell, and captured Doyle’s mouth with another kiss.

He’d been all wrong about the cricket. Doyle was the balm for his soul, and his heart.

FIN


End file.
